Daniel's whole body aches, and his head and various other internal soft parts feel like there's static and aluminum foil crunched inside of him. Extreme exhaustion. It wasn't like this after the attack at the Met, he was rattled, he was strung-out, but it wasn't fucking flattened. He has to assume that some of how he feels right now is a delayed response, that reacting to Armand's little test here (this fucking asshole) has tipped him over.

Oh right and he did a bunch of cocaine this morning. Maybe that's a thing. Whatever. His attention is already being fishhooked by wet, hot blood sliding over rich skin.

"Yeah."

Yeah. Their favorite.

"Does it still feel good for you, when it's from your wrist?"

It must. Armand had really gotten into it, the last time they saw each other. That time they haven't talked about, seem to not be talking about, with some weight to the avoidance. And here is Armand, now, going immediately to slicing himself open, like he can't fucking wait for it. Daniel's other hand has moved almost without conscious decision, sliding fingers around his maker's elbow as he looks at the crimson line trailing down.